As I Am
by Vytina
Summary: I've been lost for so long, but then your love finds me again.


**A/N: After receiving inspiration from my dear friend Monochrome-Muse, I decided to write a sequel to "At Midnight". Once again, two souls meet during the midnight hour, and once again their hearts find the connection that has been missing for so long. With inspiration from the beautiful love melodies "As I Am" by Heather Dale and "Then You Look At Me" by Celine Dion, two broken hearts might finally find just what they're looking for.**

**Title: As I Am**

**Summary: I've been lost for so long, but then your love finds me again. And because of it, life will always go on…just so long as you love me as I am.**

**Rating: T for mild innuendos and some violent images**

**Character Pairing: Terry McGinnis/Batman x Melanie Walker**

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to Batman Beyond, including its affiliated characters. I own only the content of this piece of fiction, with exception to the inspiration derived from the lyrics of the songs "As I Am" and "Then You Look At Me".**

**Note: I respect that there are other fan pairings out there besides this one. Please respect my personal favorite and I will return you the same courtesy. Thank you in advance. **

**I worked very hard on this piece and I hope it shows. If it did, please be so kind as to leave me a little review on your way out. Thank you very much!**

**EDIT: Just a few minor changes...personal preference matters, really, after hearing from some different reviews. Nothing too dramatic, so feel free to reread at your leisure, or not at all. Thank you.**

* * *

A month has passed—maybe more, maybe less—since his secret was revealed…if it ever was truly a secret. He should have known all along that he could not hide himself from her, at least not for long.

There are some skills that you are born with—heightened sense of smell, touch, hearing—and some that you come to nurture with the proper upbringing—extreme stealth, flexibility, physical strength. And when you have a _specialized_ upbringing, such as that of a professional thief bred for excellence and perfection (never failure, for failure is unacceptable), you develop additional strengths that are not limited to mere brute muscle. Chief among those is a keen sense for where things are in the darkness—finding your way around a room, being able to feel out objects without disrupting anything else in your path, and being able to blend into the shadows in the event of an unexpected guest.

And you learn to know when someone is watching you in the darkness.

So he really should have expected she would find him out, sooner or later.

Perhaps she would not have uncovered his secret if he had not broken so many rules in one night—for surely he had rules. It would seem utterly uncharacteristic of him if he didn't have some kind of lines drawn in the sand, barriers to never cross, and distances to keep. And yet, for all that he seemed cold and indifferent to her, he had expressed such raw emotion that night. It was strange, startling and confusing, but not unpleasant.

And in the days that have passed, he has not seemed so distant. He still does not announce himself, still silent when he arrives at her window ledge, but he is also a creature of habit. Her internal clock automatically awakens her at midnight, when he returns to her. She has begun to leave the window open for him. There is no fear of intruders—thieves or peeping toms—for her, not with him always lingering about.

Sometimes, she cannot bring herself to sleep. And so she will lie in wait for him, her ears searching the night for the soft, nearly inaudible sound of a figure landing upon the ledge with a light fluttering of wings, a short-lived _click_ of boots upon the concrete. Her eyes turn to the window, watching intently until the shadows shift, taking shape as he settles on the ledge. He blocks out nearly all the lights of the city with his shadow, but she does not mind. The lights, the sounds of Gotham at night are harsh, unfriendly. His presence is familiar, and for all the teachings of her youth, it is a welcome presence now.

She will slip out of bed, her mind and body strangely awake now that he is here. As he sees her move, he slips into her bedroom, moving closer to her. Sometimes, she can feel the warmth of his body radiating from beneath the suit, and it reminds her how cold she feels—not just at night, but at all times. Perhaps it is the thought of being near him at night that keeps her going during the days. And despite her better judgment, she often finds herself moving closer to him, to be closer to his heat. If he objects or dislikes it in any way, he doesn't show it. He allows her to be close to him, and they stay close together for the rest of the night, talking. It is almost inane, the things they talk about, but for her it is an anchor—a connection to reality, to society, and perhaps to sanity.

They talk of many things—he is curious how her job is going, her relationship with her brother, and most especially what difficulties she is or is not experiencing with this adjustment to a "normal life". She first expected him to be critical when she expressed her frustrations—people think too little of how difficult it is, transitioning from gaining wealth through illegal (but exhilarating) activities to earning meager funds by waiting tables and making salads. Yet he seemed sympathetic—not pitying her, but understanding her. In some ways, he is perhaps like a counselor, offering suggestions to help her through the troubling times. And unlike others who have offered similar advice—half-hearted and insincere—she takes his words to heart, considers them more carefully. She even finds herself contemplating them on the particularly hard days at work, when she feels most alone in her struggle.

He is her confidant and companion, something she has never had before. The sleepless nights are well-worth the long days ahead when they are spent with him. Sometimes, she finds herself forcibly remaining awake just so she can talk with him. He knows when she does this, and she cannot deny a rush every time she hears a smile in his voice when he speaks, when he tells her she needs to sleep. He promises to stay with her, to watch over her as she sinks deeply into blissful oblivion. She misses his voice when she sleeps, but she still feels his presence and it soothes her troubled mind. She only feels the loneliness return when she awakens at dawn's light, and he is gone. Each time, she knows he will have left, that he must return to some semblance of a "normal life"—for even Batman must live in the daylight, like any other person. And yet it does not stop her from wishing he could stay longer.

She will miss him tonight.

Absently, she wonders if he knows she will not be there tonight. Does he watch her even in the daytime, when he is safe behind a "normal" face and demeanor and can observe her without drawing suspicion?

For the strangest reason—one not even _she_ understands—she hopes he does.

A soft sigh echoes throughout the empty restaurant as she collects a few last items from the table—just one of the dozens she has needed to clean tonight. It would not normally be left up to her and only her to close up tonight, but Bryan called in sick earlier today—for the fourth time in as many weeks. The manager may be fooled, but she isn't. She knows her co-worker too well—he is in perfect health on the occasions he actually shows up for work, and the rest of the time he falls ill, he fortunately has his current girlfriend (Jack has taken to calling them "the flavor of the week") to tend to his needs.

And so once again, it falls on her to close the restaurant. A few others went home early, though a couple of them offered to stay and help her. Their consideration is comforting, but not needed. She can tend to matters herself, and this does give her some time to be alone…to think.

And as she does so many times during the day, she thinks of him.

Her eyes drift to the clock. It is midnight…_their_ hour.

She sighs again, tucking the place settings and condiments away in the designated cupboards—actions so routine and memorized now that she barely needs to dedicate any real thought to them at all. Her mind can be put to better use, to thinking of more important things—where is he now? Has he journeyed to her apartment to find her room empty, the window to her bedroom locked tight? Does he wonder where she is, or does he already know? Will he come looking for her, to keep an eye on her as he does every night? Or is his presence needed elsewhere?

Her ears strain for the sound of a siren, a shout, a sign of the chaos that remains ever prevalent on these streets at this hour. She hears nothing, but that means little. The city is vast, expansive. He could be summoned at any moment, and she will not see him this night. And despite efforts to the contrary, she finds herself furious at the very idea. She does not want to lose a single night with him; no matter what needs the city may have for him, _her_ need for him is greater. She needs to see his shadow beside her, sense his presence, hear his voice…feel his warmth.

She knows she is selfish, and that she will perhaps always be selfish.

But she is not selfish in all regards. She is frugal—she learned quickly how to budget and save her earnings (meager though they are), and her brother is slowly learning the skill as well. She seeks very little now, save a roof over her head and food on the table. Perhaps every now and then, she misses the comfort and luxury she was born into, that she grew accustomed to. But for all her yearnings for her old life, a strange, abstract hope still lingers in her thoughts—always present, always a distinct voice encouraging her forward.

But she will always be selfish for two men—two separate beings that are ever present in her thoughts, no matter how hard she tries to put one or the other out of sight, out of mind.

She pauses to think how long it has been—a week, maybe 8 days? Time passes so quickly now…she hardly can stop to fully consider it. Only certain dates stand out now, and they are few in number. But there is one date she does remember: _August 22__nd_.

It was the first time she had seen him in months—the better part of a year, really. He looks just as she remembers; time has not changed him, at least not so that others would notice. He came in with a small group—party of four, no doubt taking part in a double date. There was a blonde girl who clung to the arm of a well-built brunette (an athlete, most assuredly). And there was him—Terry, smiling and laughing as he always does, as he always should. And wrapped around his arm was another girl—hair as dark as hers was light; skin tanned where hers was pale and colorless; dark eyes, like the night sky, to compare with icy blue crystals.

Several times, he had called her by name—_Dana_.

Dana smiled at him, and he smiled at her. He held Dana's hand throughout the night, and Dana kept him close to her. Dana's head rested on his shoulder, and her face was content, proud and successful. Dana had him at her side.

She had tried to avoid them, tried to keep herself as far from that table as possible. But her manager assigned it to her, and her coworkers could not, would not, did not come to her aid.

Acid churned in her throat, rising from her stomach as she went to take their orders, her face a hardened mask of a professional demeanor, of respect. The blonde and her boyfriend did not return the favor.

Even now, she remembers the tears of frustration that stung at her eyelids that night, and a few of them managed to slip out and fall to the sink, leaving tiny puddles in their wake while she clutched at the counter, bargaining with her self-control to remain just a little longer, just a few more minutes. She remembered Jack's hand on her shoulder, and she knew he had seen the tears. Her head shook firmly, clearing away the tears before she returned to her duties. She knew he would ask about the tears again later, but for now he knew enough to leave her alone.

They were gone by the time she returned to the table, leaving a grand mess to tend to, and a pittance for her troubles. Teeth clenched, hands shaking, she set to work, as she was expected to do—as she was _paid_ to do, when she found a strange sight at his place—where Terry had been sitting moments earlier.

It was his napkin, clean and unused, folded twice over in a strange formation. It was raised, as though something was carefully hidden within. And when she opened it, a cred card fell into her palm—25 creds worth, to be exact.

Whether or not she actually finished cleaning the table seemed irrelevant at the time, and even now, weeks later, she couldn't actually remember if she did or not. All she could remember was being outside, curled up beside the back door with the card wrapped tightly in her hands. And the tears. She remembered the tears.

Terry held _her_ hand like that once. Terry smiled at _her_ that way once. Terry kept _her_ close and held _her _and whispered in _her_ ear and made _her_ feel like _she_ was the only woman in his life…once.

It was her, not Dana. It is supposed to be _her_…Terry is supposed to be _hers_.

She is a selfish little girl, and she knows she is a selfish little girl because she has no one else to blame but _herself_.

As she carefully locks the front doors, she wonders if things would have been different if she had only gone to see him that night.

It seems a lifetime ago—and perhaps, in some ways, it is. She could have done it, could have broken away that day. And she'd been ready, hadn't she? She was ready to get on the elevator and leave and never come back—no baggage to bring with her, no essentials to carry along…_nothing_. She would have started over, and she was _so close_…one step away from the elevator doors and her freedom.

"_Some day the right one will come along, one who _will_ fit in. He'll be your king, and you'll have all the money you want, all the freedom…the very finest life can offer. But _only_ if you stick with this family."_

He'd offered to help her. He'd reached out to her, asking her to let him in, to trust him enough to help her. He might have even come to her window, like the knights in those fairy tales coming to rescue the princess from her cursed fate. He could have been there and taken her away from everything—family, crime, loneliness.

If only she had trusted him enough to take the hand reaching out for her.

But she didn't. And she fell.

* * *

The stiff cotton of her uniform shirt slides away from her body, and she breathes a sigh of relief. The skirt falls away too, beside her discarded heels, and for a brief moment, she feels strangely free. It has not always been this way; there have been (and still are) times when being naked stirs ugly emotions within her—overwhelming feelings of anxiety, of self-loathing and disgust, and hatred. Hatred for what her parents forced her to become. Hatred for what she _let_ herself become, all because she was not strong enough to refuse the demands of her family.

But in the quiet, solitary moments that she stands in the back dressing room—as she has done before in the privacy of her bedroom—she feels a sense of peace. She allows herself to imagine Terry here with her, touching her as carefully as he did before—fingers moving through her hair, down her shoulders to her waist, keeping her close. And further still, she allows herself to imagine _him_—Batman, her confidant, companion, protector—there, touching her as he did that fateful night. She still feels his gloved fingers drawing the strap of her nightdress back up her shoulder, preserving her modesty, keeping her innocent and pure when she is nothing of the sort, after years of whoring herself out for her family's profit. She remembers the way he touched her hair, and his touch was—is—so strangely like Terry's that even now it sends a shiver through her spine.

She lifts a finger to her lips, running it across the seam just like he did. Perhaps it was wrong, perhaps it was even foolish of her to lie there, feigning sleep solely for the purpose of allowing him to continue touching her, to beg in her silence for him to never cease these strange caresses that felt so alien and yet still familiar to her. She remembers clutching his wrist when he drew away from her, refusing to lose his touch just yet.

Selfish…selfish and hopelessly dependent upon his presence, upon his touch, and upon whatever feelings he held for her. She could dream—does dream—that he could love her…that he could look past all her faults, her imperfections, even past the hollow, broken shell of a woman that she is.

That he could simply take her as she is, for all that she is.

Her eyes open, and she remembers herself—where she is and what she should be doing. She should be ashamed, but she is not. And as she redresses in civilian clothes, she feels constrained once more.

* * *

September nights are pleasantly warm here, yet there is still a soft breeze that drifts throughout the streets. She welcomes it, seeks it. Absurdly, she pretends the feel of it through her platinum locks are fingers—soft and careful, desiring and loving.

The streets are dark, poorly lit and empty—or so it would seem. Her senses are in a heightened state, and she feels eyes lingering on her. She wishes it was _him_, but these are not his eyes—a friendly and understanding gaze beneath a mask. These are predatory eyes, hungering for flesh in the most primitive, perverse ways possible.

She draws her jacket tighter around her, trying to move faster through the streets, to the safety of her home and (more importantly) her brother's company. She wishes he was here now, and in spite of knowing how desperately he needs the rest, she curses herself for letting him go home and leave her alone. This is not the hour to be a young female traveling without company…not on these streets.

A hand suddenly tightens around her wrist, yanking her forcefully into an alley. The cold, rough brick wall meets her spine with a sharp jolt of pain. She rips her arm away, but already she knows it is too late. She can see them now in the murky lights—five shapes, maybe more, moving in from the shadows. The one who grabbed her is closest, and as he steps into the light, her stomach tightens at the sight of clown paint covering his face.

"Hey there, pretty kitty…" he croons at her, and she smells tobacco on his breath, "You shouldn't be wandering around here alone like this."

"Get away from me." Her voice is strong, commanding, but already she knows it will not dissuade them. They have no reason to fear her; she is alone, unprotected, and disgustingly vulnerable—easy prey, and now a little toy to play with.

"No need to be so feisty, honey…" he draws closer, and she cringes, "I'll protect you…that is, if you'll take care of a few things for me too."

His finger strokes under her chin and her instincts rise to the surface with a vengeance. Her hand strikes, nails leaving four red marks across his cheek, paint residue remaining on her fingertips. "Don't touch me!" she snaps, eyes flashing furiously as she tries to find any kind of escape route. The others are moving closer now, and the leader straightens from her attack, a dangerous grin on his face.

"Well, well…looks like the kitty wants to play rough." He beckons the others forward, closer to her. Desperate, she moves to run and finds herself locked in a powerful grip around the waist. This one throws her backwards, into the waiting hold of the leader. His left arm tightens viciously around her stomach, and she barely contains a whimper of pain.

"You know what happens to bad girls, little kitty?" he growls in her ear. His free arm moves quick, grabbing her jacket and ripping it from her shoulders (she hears the seam break) before throwing her to the ground, looming over her with his companions, "They have to learn to _behave_."

"Get away from me!" she screams as he descends upon her, hands bruising her wrists as he fights to keep her pinned. Her legs thrash, trying to kick anything she possibly can, cause even the slightest injury to get him off, to give her a chance to escape.

Her nails cut him at the wrist, but it doesn't help. If anything, it makes things worse.

"Bitch…" he snarls, knee pressing into her stomach while he goes to his jacket. Seconds later, the distinct glint of a blade flashes before her eyes—he has the knife to her stomach, just below the hem of her shirt, "Looks like I'm gonna have to take some extra special time teaching you to behave…"

Her protests are futile as he draws the knife upward, cutting through the fabric. Her thoughts frantic, her leg moves, delivering a sharp blow to his inner thigh. The knife veers off course, leaving a thick line of blood in its wake that sends bolts of pain through her nerves. She tries to throw him off again, but his companions are faster, keeping her pinned while he catches his breath.

His gaze is murderous. "Alright, kitty…if you want to play _that_ game…" he moves for the waist of her jeans, bloodied knife in hand, "Then let's—"

"Get away from her!"

She knows that voice, but she has never heard it so angry, so firm and commanding. She hears the sound of a body crashing into the two Jokerz who hold her pinned, just before they are thrown violently backwards, into their leader, and tumble into a disoriented pile a few feet away. She sees a dark shape lean over her, just before his attention is diverted by three others, charging forward to avenge their fellows. He stands over her, protecting and ready to defend.

She allows herself to briefly admire him—the agility and speed with which he strikes, the precision with which he deals each blow, and the strength he displays with each attack—whether it is him, the suit, or a mixture of both, she does not care. It is nearly mesmerizing to watch him when he is engaged in battle. He has been trained well, and he displays his training with each and every movement he makes.

"Batman?" she finds her voice again, the shock replaced by wonder and relief as she stands, ignoring the painful protests of her still-bleeding injury, "How did you—?"

"Never mind that," he responds, narrowly deflecting a blow from a crowbar, "Just stay behind me!" another punch sends one clown-faced fiend sailing backwards, only to be replaced by two more. Already they are sporting bruises and small cuts from the fight, but they are relentless.

"The kitty is ours, freak!" the leader growls, swinging a steel pipe wildly as he charges forward, "Hand her over and we won't use you for a punching bag!"

"You like teaching people to behave?" he returns, catching the pipe in one hand just before it meets his head. The man's painted face contorts as he fights to regain control of the weapon, but Batman's hold is unyielding, "Maybe it's time _you_ had a few lessons of your own, punk!"

Perhaps it is a sign of her unconventional upbringing, or a twisted sense of retribution for his attack upon her, that she does not wince but watches with small fascination as her protector's fist flies forward, and the distinct _crack!_ of bones breaking echoes through the night as his blow falls upon the leader's nose. A howl of pain follows, muffled by the two hands clenched over his face as he stumbles back. Another strike to the side of the neck—sharp and deliberate—sends him to the ground, unconscious and bleeding profusely from the nose.

He probably would not have heard the whistling of the crowbar—back for another attack from behind—until it was too late. He _did_ hear the metal weapon meet a pair of hands, a grunt of surprise, and then a great "_Oof!_" just before a body fell heavily to the ground. Upon turning, he found his would-be attacker, the last of the six, on the ground, clutching his lower regions with a breathless, pitiful whimper. Above him, crowbar in hand, she observes the writhing figure for a moment before tossing the item away. Sharp blue eyes lifted to meet his masked ones as she shrugs.

"Works almost every time." She offers, almost innocently. The mouth of his mask parts in a small grin as he nods his approval to her.

The silence is quickly broken by the sharp cry of sirens, drawing nearer with each second. Her eyes lift to the sky, finding the crafts hovering above with spotlights searching. Then there is a hand around hers and a voice in her ear.

"Come on."

* * *

The Jokerz are loaded into the police crafts—most of them carried or half-dragged up the metallic ramp. The officers stand together, talking amongst themselves as they survey the scene. One lifts the knife from where it was long-since discarded, against the dumpster, and examines the dried blood briefly. Finally, he deposits it in an evidence bag and moves on. Another moment passes, and then the craft lifts into the air and prepares to deliver its..._contents_ to jail.

From the rooftop where both have sat in silence for near half an hour, Melanie lifts her eyes to the masked face of her rescuer. His gaze is intently focused on her injury, hands moving slowly to secure the wound with gauze wrappings. Her arms have been lifted for the last few minutes, but if they are growing tired, she does not notice. Her attention remains on the careful, deliberate way he moves around her torso, ensuring the bandages are secure—at least until she can see a real doctor. His touch is warm and caring, something she is not accustomed to—or at least, she wasn't before he came into her life.

Inadvertently, her mind returns to her brief bout with fantasy in the dressing room. She finds herself wishing for his touch to continue, abandoning her wound for other regions of her body. To touch her in ways she has barely dreamt of, letting his hands silently express his feelings for her…if he could ever feel something for her.

After another moment, he draws back to examine his work, then straightens up. "Alright," he has not spoken since he requested her to lift her arms and remain still (approximately six minutes ago), and it is a relief to hear his voice, "How does that feel?"

She misses his hands on her already. "Fine," she answers, shifting slightly to judge how the wrappings feel around her—and how painful the injury is. Happily, she finds the pain has subsided considerably. "Thank you."

He nods. "Don't forget, you should see a doctor about that as soon as possible…just to make sure there's no infection."

She feels an overwhelming sense of satisfaction at his concern. "I will…" she murmurs, pausing before adding, "How did you find me?"

"You weren't at home." He answers quietly, almost shyly, "So I went to see if you were still at work, but the restaurant was closed up…then I heard you scream. And I came running."

He came to her window, just like always. He came looking for her when she wasn't there, seeking her out. He came to her rescue, fighting off her attackers like a white—no, dark—knight. He didn't seem to have even _blinked_ before moving forward, before protecting her at any costs…no matter the consequences.

She wishes she had his strength, his courage. Maybe if she did, she would have been strong enough to trust Terry to protect her, to love her in ways her parents never did, never could, and never will.

But she wants to trust Batman now. She would open her heart to him, just as she should have with Terry. She would take a chance…she would trust him to see all that she is—all that she _isn't_. And she could trust that he would accept her.

Something catches her eye, away from his face and down the line of his arm. At first, it appears to be nothing but a trick of the light, but then she sees it: a steady trickle of dark liquid—the color all but identical to that of his suit—falling in fat, heavy droplets to the ground.

Her eyes widen. "Batman…" she whispers, reaching out for his hand, "You're bleeding."

He looks down in surprise, as though he had only just noticed it (he paid more attention to her injuries than his own). "Oh…right. It's nothing to worry about…"

Injuries are always something to worry about, no matter how small. She has personal experience to support that statement. "Let me see." She insists, reaching out without really seeking permission. Carefully, her fingers peel back the torn edges of the glove, exposing the cut. It is small, probably no longer than an inch, but considering the weapon that likely inflicted it was rusted and dirty, he would do well to not take risks.

She has no water to clean it with, but he has small alcohol pads, and that will have to do. Leaning over his hand, she works with as much care and precision as he tended to her, her eyes train on the wound, carefully pressing the small pads to the broken skin. Once or twice, he winces at the sting of alcohol, but otherwise remains still. Even in the silence, she feels his eyes studying her, and it is all she can do to not allow the shivers creeping up her spine to reveal just how exciting she finds his gaze.

With skilled fingers, she ties the bandage firmly around his palm. Her fingers linger, touching his skin longer than necessary before drawing back. "There," she speaks softly, "That should hold…at least, until you go to a real doctor."

She feels pleasantly warm as he smiles, amused at the casual way she echoes his words back to him. "I'll be sure to do that, Doctor." He answers, returning the leftover bandages and medical supplies back to his belt.

Silence falls for a few minutes more, and then she lifts her head once more. "You told me Terry McGinnis got the note." Her voice is very quiet; she does not trust it to speak louder and expose her deeper feelings on the matter. "But…did he _read_ it?"

His body stiffens, the silence grows heavier, and she already knows the answer before he gives it. "I don't think he did." His voice is even lower than hers.

Slowly, she nods, blinking back the tears that want to be shed. "I guess I should have expected that." She whispers, "I really screwed up…choosing my family over him was the stupidest decision I've ever made." Her body turns away, looking out over the city. "But he's happy now…so I'll be happy for him."

She does not see him turn toward her, but she can sense it all the same. "How can you say that?"

His voice is different, and for the briefest moment, she almost believes it is Terry standing behind her, not Batman. Her eyes blink away the tears before she looks back at him. "What?"

He pauses, and when he speaks again, he seems to have regained his composure. "How do you know he's happy?"

Her eyes turn back to the dark sky. "I've seen him with his girlfriend. He smiles and laughs when he's with her…he looks so happy being with her—with Dana." She swallows back the acidic taste that remains on her tongue after speaking that name. A brief moment passes, and then she adds, "If I know nothing else, I know he wouldn't be happy with me. After what I did to him…I don't blame him for not trying to contact me…for leaving me out of his life. I'd probably only end up causing more pain for him."

The silence that follows is different, almost painful to endure this time. She wants to be the first to break it, yet her tongue seems almost paralyzed. A part of her wishes her words were lies, but she knows they are not. An even greater part of her wishes he would contradict her words, but she know he will not. She can only wait, hoping he will speak when she cannot.

"He may not have read the note," again, his voice is different, and he cannot bring himself to compose himself again, "but it wasn't just out of hurt or anger." He knows she never said Terry McGinnis hated her, but she implied it. "He just…didn't know how to reach you anymore. It seemed that, no matter what you said, you would never leave your old life…that you would never really change."

He watches her arms wrap around her, head bowed low, and he knows she is trying not to cry. Every fiber of his being screams for him to comfort her, to hold her and touch her and soothe away her pain. Even greater yet, he wants to reveal every secret, open every door to her. He wants to hold out his hand for her, and once she takes it, he wants to pull her close and never let her go again. He wants to fix every mistake he ever made, repair the damage he left both in her heart and his own.

And yet he knows there is only one way to ever fully heal those wounds—both for her and himself.

"But the truth is," he whispers, moving closer to her, "He's the one who won't change. He doesn't know how to reach you…because he won't try. He doesn't trust himself…to trust you…to be with you."

She releases a weak, shaky breath, and he sees her body trembling (he wants to wrap his arms around her until she stops). "Do you think…" her voice is nearly inaudible, faltering and worried, "he ever loved me? _Could_ he ever love someone like me?"

There is a heavy silence that falls between them—just one of many that has passed during this night. She wants to move, to run. It is what she always does, after all—run. She ran away from her chance at freedom, at living a normal life, out of fear. She ran back into the chains she longed so desperately to escape, because she feared living on her own, living a life she knew nothing about. And she ran away from the first chance she ever had for love, to be with someone who just might be able to accept her and want her in ways she only dreamt of before…because she was afraid to hope for the chance to love—to be loved.

She always runs, it seems. And she will always run…without anyone to run to.

And, it seems…she will always be doomed to run.

Two arms suddenly wrap around her, holding far tighter than ever before. The abrupt weight against her back from a muscled chest startles her, and yet the warmth of relief floods her with relief. He has not left her…he's still here.

"He does." His voice is strange, low and hoarse with emotion. "He does…but it can't go on. It just can't. I can't put you in danger…I can't let you get hurt again."

The tears are slow, but they fall in good time, streaking down her cheeks. Yet they are not tears of grief, or even anger. They are tears of relief, of acceptance, and perhaps even joy. Her suspicions are finally confirmed, her strange hopes finally granted. She should perhaps deny this sense of peace that covers her heart and soul, but she cannot. And in truth, she does not wish to.

"If he truly loves me," she whispers, turning her head slightly, bringing her gaze up to his face—dark and shadowed, but she can still feel his eyes on her, "If he can love me for the broken, tainted soul that I am…can he not trust that I would do the same? That I would stay with him for all his faults and failures?"

"No." he whispers, yet he doesn't release her yet. If anything, he holds her tighter, as if to protect her from the truth of his words. "I won't…I can't do it, Melanie. I can't let you in, only to watch you get hurt again."

"Then what would you do with me?" she asks, her voice low, "I might allow myself to think you want me, that you would be willing to keep me in your life. But if all you want me for is to be a pretty little bird that you can keep in a cage, tucked away for you to use at leisure…"

"That's has nothing to do with it." He protests, arms tightening to the point of pain, yet she cannot bring herself to stop him. "I'm not…you deserve better. I'm not the King you deserve to marry, who can take care of you and give you everything you want and more. And I'm…I'm not perfect. I hurt you once, even worse than you hurt me. And I'll do it again…I know I will. I won't _mean_ to," his voice has grown thick, heavy with emotion that he has not allowed himself to feel in a long time, "but I will. I can't…can't let you be with me, knowing I will keep hurting you until the day comes when I've broken you beyond repair."

She does not move for a long time, and then her hand touches his chest, pressing firmly to loosen his grip on her. He does so reluctantly, waiting for her to run, to walk away and out of his life once again. But then he finds her eyes locked directly with his, standing mere inches from him. Her hand lifts again, this time to his face. Her fingers move carefully, deliberately, and he knows immediately what she's looking for.

His hand closes tightly around her wrist as she finally locates the hem of his mask. His fear is evident, practically radiating from him. Her resolve does not falter. She is not afraid of what she may find beneath the mask. She wants to see it.

She wants him.

"I'm a big girl, Terry." She whispers. "I've been hurt before, and I have the scars to prove it. But I always heal…always get back on my feet again." her thumb moves down to tenderly stroke the back of his hand, and she feels him shiver at the small touch. "I just need to know you'll always be there when I fall, when I lose my way. I need your strength to help me fight, and your light when I find myself lost in the darkness. I need your love to keep me alive…to keep me sane."

"Melanie—"

"Just don't do this out of some duty you feel you owe me," she does not let him finish, which is fine. He is not sure what he might have said had she allowed him to continue, "Or out of some debt you feel needs to be paid. Don't love me out of pride or guilt or pity. Just…love me if you _want_ to love me, if you _need_ me in your life. That's all I ask."

She can feel his eyes searching her face, yet the intensity of his gaze sears her down to the very core of her being. For this moment, she fears his answer. She wants to hope for his love—for his heart—yet she does not yet dare to do so.

Not yet.

Slowly, his hand falls from her wrist, and his head lowers. She releases a breath, not even realizing she had been holding one in to begin with. Carefully, her fingers slip under the hem, the fabric cool against her skin. The right hand joins its left, carefully drawing the mask up. Skin is bared inch by inch—first the chin, then the lips, and then the nose and cheeks…

He releases a slow, careful sigh, and then his eyes open—sharp, grey-blue eyes that once captured her heart. Now, they possess her soul, and she doesn't want it back—so long as it is left in his care.

A gloved hand cups her face, carefully and gently. She can feel the warmth of his skin through the fabric—real and tangible this time. He is here with her.

He leans forward, closer and closer, until she can feel the warmth of his breath against her cheeks…against her lips. Her eyes fall closed as his lips touch hers, but he does not kiss her yet. Instead, she feels his mouth move, murmuring her name—a soft, barely audible sound against the skin of her lips. Yet for the first time in her life, her name is a rapturous melody that rings against the very fiber of her being, down to her heart. The organ thrums wildly against her ribs, shaking the foundations of her body. But even if she falls, it does not matter. She is in his arms, safe and protected once more.

Her arms slip through the narrow loops of his, curling around his back to grasp his shoulders. He holds her so tightly that it is a wonder she can breathe, but she does not want to. Her fingers are probably leaving bruises in his skin, but if he feels any discomfort, he doesn't show it. Instead, his forehead comes to rest against hers, the warmth radiating from his body to infect hers.

"Stay with me tonight." She whispers, their lips still touching, not yet kissing. "Stay with me and hold me until we have to face tomorrow."

She feels his mouth curve in a smile. It has been too long since she has seen his smile—since she has been the reason he smiles. "I will," he murmurs, "I promise."

_I've been lost for so long…_

Her eyes close once more, feeling his lips finally move to kiss her. The warmth floods her system, and she melts against him, finally safe and whole where she belongs. His kiss is exactly as she remembers—overwhelming, intoxicating and infectious. His heat, his desire burns her to the core of her being, searing every nerve and fiber until she feels she is burning alive. And she would burn forever, so long as he is the fire that consumes her heart, mind, and body.

_...but then I find your love again..._

He does not know what tomorrow will bring—for either of them. He will have to face the consequences of his actions, for good or ill. Bruce will be less than enthusiastic about his choices tonight, and he knows exactly what he will say, what his reaction will be to his feelings for her. Bruce will consider them irrelevant, of no great importance or consequence, and he will say that _Batman_ is the only person who should matter in Terry's life—that _Batman is his life_.

But he is wrong. _She_ is his life, and as long as she will have him, he can face the consequences. He will.

…_and I find the strength to go on._

He breaks away only for a moment, drawing air back into his craving lungs and meeting her eyes. Never before have they appeared so radiant, so captivating as they do right now. She looks strong, powerful…_alive_.

And for the first time in a year, he finally feels whole and complete…with her.

_Just so long as you look at me…_

"I love you."

…_and take me as I am. _


End file.
